Some Assembly Required
by fluteandpicc
Summary: Based off of an AU suggested on livejournal: Teenage AU where the Avengers are a bunchy of mouthy runaway/orphaned kids who band together and commit petty theft (later more grand-scale theft like banks etc.) in order to survive on the streets. (Now set that back in the '50's, add in a touch of MKUltra and Project Paperclip, and you've got this story!)
1. Chapter 1: Foolproof

Chapter 1: Foolproof

"I thought you said your plan was foolproof, _Tony_!" a young boy with sandy brown hair and Ray-Ban sunglasses huffed out as he fired off a batch of arrows with the ease of Robin Hood. The arrows found their target: a group of angry-looking men in leather jackets and brass knuckles.

"I thought you said you'd have an eye out on everything, _Clint_!" Tony, a slightly taller boy with the beginnings of a mustache, yelled back.

"THIS WAY!" the tallest boy with blue eyes and short blonde hair that was ruffling in the wind created by his sure and steady glide spouted, turning into an alleyway. Six kids followed behind him, the only girl, dressed in black with fiery red hair, was letting loose a barrage of bullets as well as a string of Russian curse words. The group had the advantage of size and speed and managed to get a few full feet ahead of the livid, profusely perspiring men.

"There's a deserted house a few blocks up- it was abandoned in the process of being built, so plenty of places to hide," the smallest boy said loudly, his voice noticeably smaller than the others, even though he was 13 and the third oldest.

"Good job, Banner!" the blonde boy said, giving the smaller one a reassuring smile... Anything to keep him from getting too upset, because when Bruce Banner was upset, well, let's just says that no one was happy, either.

The blonde one—Steve, the leader of the rag-tag group of thieves and con artists—found the door of a barely begun home about a block down, and waited outside of it as he ushered everyone in first.

"Such a gentleman," Tony winked, causing Steve to roll his eyes and shove him into the building.

Once inside, the group collapsed on the floor to catch their breath- everyone that is, except for Clint, who was climbing to the exposed beams of an unfinished ceiling with an ease that attested to his years as a circus performer.

"What can you see?" Steve asked, sounding every bit the leader.

"I see... I see the idiots giving up and running back and a clear street! Hey! I guess we showed 'em who's boss! Nice shooting, 'Tasha." Clint dropped down to the floor as silently as a cat.

"Back at'cha, Clint!"

Everyone erupted into cheers except for Steve.  
"See?" Tony laughed, "My plans _are_ foolproof."

"No way- there's no way guys like that would have given up so easily. Are you sure it was a clear street?"

"As far as I could see- no one was coming."

"That's because I was already here," a nameless voice floated menacingly from a corner where the sinking sun's rays didn't quite reach.

"It's Amory. Sergeant Amory, police chief of this fair city. I was looking for squatters, but wait till I tell the boys I caught the infamous gang of runaway kids." An older man in uniform with a slightly graying hairline and mustache walked toward the kids. His leathery skin evidenced the many years of hard labor, and there were wrinkles permanently ironed into his forehead. He smiled a menacing toothy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, his crow's feet barely moving, and spit tobacco.

"Forgive me," a large framed, muscular boy with long blonde hair, innocent baby blue eyes, and a heavy Scandinavian accent began, "but what are 'squatters'?"

"You are such a dolt, Thor," the towering, yet thin boy with long black hair and an accent not as strong as his brother's replied, rolling his equally blue, but ten times more mischievous, eyes.

This was the distraction—Tony and Bruce started making their way to the back of the room while Steve, Clint, and Natasha had slowly started making their way closer to the man.

"Brother, I do not jest. I do not know this word."

"And you believe now is the proper time to ask the definition? You've always been reckless, but this is a whole new level of stupidity. I apologize for my brother's naiveté. We aren't from around here."

"I know. Thor Odinson: golden son of the Royal Duke of Trondheim, and Loki Laufeyson: the Kraut with a bad attitude. I hope they send you back to Hitler when you get home," the policeman drawled, spitting tobacco on the floor.

Thor growled wildly and picked up a hammer that he found discarded on the ground and held it menacingly. Loki's eyes flashed and he swiftly drew his weapon of choice- a staff given to him by his father—_adoptive_ father—he reminded himself, and laughed as if the world had let him in on the best joke in the universe. The sheriff drew his gun and fired, and that was all that was needed to start the pandemonium.

Tony and Bruce watched in horror as Clint yelled out, "I'm out of arrows—I dropped my quiver outside when we were running from the biker fat-heads!" – Never a good way to start a fight.

"Don't worry, big guy. I'm sure they won't need you. You're safe; this will be done quickly, ok?" Tony said to Bruce who was fighting back rage, fear, and aggression—fighting back the feeling of falling inside of him—fighting back becoming an MK-Delta programmed assassin.

Thor threw the hammer at Sgt. Amory's hand that held a semi-automatic pistol causing him to drop it with a few colorful curse words.

"He is my brother! We laughed, played, and fought by each other's side!" Thor swung at the older man. "You will rue the day you ever spoke to the brother of Thor in such a manner!" This time his fist connected, stunning the man for a few seconds. Loki ran at the policeman and got in two solid hits before Natasha had run up to him, trained to be lethal in hand-to-hand combat from her years as the daughter of a Mafia capo. After a brief struggle, Sgt. Amory managed to grab hold of the gun and pointed it at Natasha's head.

"Back off, or the girl goes first," he snarled. Everyone froze and began to drop their weapons.

Bruce screamed; an empty, bone-chilling, soul shattering yell that was an octave deeper than the boy's normal voice. Tony could tell by the distant look in his eyes that Bruce wasn't aware of the situation at hand, he was somewhere else. Someplace dark and violent and miserable, someplace someone as fragile as Bruce shouldn't have been.

"Get off of her!" the 90 pound boy who normally didn't take up more space than a church mouse bellowed, tackling the large chief of police with the ease of a 200 pound defensive lineman. A powerful fist connected with the older man's jaw and he was out. Bruce didn't let up, unleashing a barrage of punches that rivaled the rapidity of machine gun fire.

"Stop hurting her! Stop hurting her!" he repeated over and over.

To the average observer, it would seem that Bruce was being overly protective of Natasha, but the years Tony spent around Bruce let him know that it wasn't the Sgt. Amory he was beating, it was his father. And if Bruce didn't snap out of it soon, he'd kill the police chief with the ease of a wild lion hunting down an antelope, and Bruce would spiral into a bottomless chasm of depression, and pull even further into himself.

"Bruce, stop!" Natasha screams. "He's down, we have to run now! Leave him be! He's not worth it!"

"I can't stop, not after what he's done to you... He deserves it, he deserves it!"

"Bruce, Bruce—you gotta snap out of it, okay?" Tony grabbed the smaller, but more powerful kid by the shoulders and tried to shake him back into reality. "You're not there. You're not in danger anymore. And it's not your fault that your mom died; it was that asshole of a father you had who messed with your head." Bruce's pupils were slowly shrinking back to their regular size, and the punches were losing velocity. Tony took a deep breath and kneeled down next to the child who was slowly starting to tremble and tenderly began to run his fingers through the mass of curly brown hair that sweetly hung around Bruce's face.

"You have every right to be angry, but killing this guy won't do anything to hurt your dad, just you. And we have to leave soon. You're a part of this family now...we love you, and we'll never make you do things you don't have to do, but goddammit we need you to come back, Bruce."

That was it. Bruce broke down into gut-wrenching sobs and curled into Tony's lap. Steve caught his eye and mouthed "good job", and the rest of the group were visibly relieved.

"Alright, big guy, it's time to move. We need to cover some ground between here and wherever the hell we're going to be sleeping tonight."

"Guys, we can't just leave the man like this—he could die," Steve contested, his blue eyes flashing judiciously. Bruce flinched and backed away from the group until his back was touching the crumbling drywall behind him.

"I agree. It is said that the man who can treat his enemies well in times of need is a far superior warrior than those who only show brutality," Thor rumbled in agreement.

"But fellas, how are we going to move him without getting caught? Seven kids dragging an unconscious policeman through the streets aren't going to look kosher, are they? And then the bulls will be on our tail faster than Thor on bacon," Clint reasoned, climbing down from his perch on the uncovered beams above.

"Perhaps there is a way to make him appear sentient," Loki began, a mischievous sparkle appearing in his crystal blue eyes. "Tony, I will need your mechanical assistance."

Everyone looked at Steve, who nodded his silent agreement, lips set in a thin line. Sometimes, he didn't know how he got tangled up with these kids whose sense of adventure often overran their sense of morality, but until their lives no longer depended on stealing, running, and trickery, he'd have to settle for the fuzzy gray area between right and wrong.

"But we don't need everyone. The fewer we are, the less likely we'll get caught. 'Tasha: you, Bruce, and Thor take the loot and tie it up so that we're ready to leave ASAP, and then go to the old hideaway and make sure it looks like we were never there; Clint and I will be their back-up."

Thor groaned in protest, wanting to be the warrior and go out on adventures, but a sharp look from Natasha snatched the wind out his diaphragm. The three started to trudge tiredly towards the door, Natasha linking arms with Bruce and protectively laying her head on his shoulder.

"Remember to look out for any sign of danger, ok? We don't need another close call like this."

"Yes sir," Natasha said, snapping her arms into a salute without hint of irony or sarcasm. She knew orders when she heard them, and following orders was what Natasha Romanoff was raised to do. Well, that and _giving_ orders, but learning how to lead meant learning how to be a good follower. Or at least, that's what her trainer had always told her, and he had always seemed to be right.

Once Thor, Natasha, and Bruce slipped into the night air, Steve focused his full attention on Loki and Tony, two of the group's best strategists, arguing over whether or not it would be feasible to build an apparatus to prop up the presently unconscious policeman. The young leader found it ironic that Tony, the one who would have less than five minutes to build whatever elaborate sketch he was drawing, was rooting for the most difficult idea.

"My idea is much simpler, and more easy to execute. All we need are my staff, these small beams of wood, and this rope."

"But simpler is _boring_," Tony spat, as if being boring were synonymous with being the devil.

"Tony—"Steve warned, anxious to be out of the room, especially if Sgt. Amory would be waking up soon.

"Fine, fine. Have it your way. No one appreciates my wonderful, visionary mind."

"So that's what you call being an arrogant, daisy-minded, rich boy?" Steve asked drily, a smirk creeping ever-so-slightly to his face. His blue eyes were dancing with merriment as he stared into Tony's chocolate brown eyes, daring him to retort.

"Save it for someone who cares, Cap," Tony replied lamely, too focused on finding a non-permanent way to connect the thin wooden beams to Loki's staff while making the staff accessible and easy to remove. His tongue peaked out of the side of his mouth and his thick, dark eyebrows were storm clouds gathered over his eyes.

"Stark may be a pain in the rear, but he has concentration and vision," Steve decided, ambling over to Clint who had his bow unstrung and was eyeing the pathway leading up to the unfinished ceiling, visibly considering climbing back up to his perch. The young leader knew not to be fooled by the looseness of the bow- Clint could have his arrow strung and firing faster than a bullet could leave a barrel. He was very protective of his bow and quiver- given to him by his parents for his first performance in the circus. Clint found it ironic that he'd probably be using them for his final performance in life. He had dimly accepted that a life without violence would probably be unlikely. All he heard about in the foster home was how studies say this and that, and that once a criminal, you were pretty much destined to be a criminal. At first, he thought the studies were balderdash, but as he got shuffled from temporary home to temporary home and forced to do things that were less than legal, he found that he was becoming a statistic; an unwilling participant in one of God's studies. A hard lesson for someone only 11 years old to have learned and learned well, but then again, none of the kids ever had it easy except Stark, the world-famous rich runaway kid.

Tony got a sick sense of delight when he would see his face on milk cartons and flyers. His dad had even managed to get the story on ABC, NBC, DuMont, and CBS. Tony was finally famous for something he did on his own- not for whose son he was. Combined with the knowledge that his emotionally unavailable son of a bitch father might actually be distraught over him—maybe even feeling _remorseful_—was even sweeter. Then again, he probably just drank all of it away, and his mom was running everything behind the scenes. A groundswell of guilt threatened to overcome him, but was swiftly replaced by pride: dadgummit, he'd finished the contraption, and it was _ingenious _and _damn beautiful. _

"Well, of course it would be beautiful, I created it," he thought, gently running a finger across a beam.

"Swell- it's finished!" Steve smiled and playfully tugged at Clint's dangling leg, causing him to tumble down- he still landed on his feet.

"No, no, no, no! It's not finished yet!" The boy's pale hands disappeared into his pants and he scrounged around for a few seconds before his face broke out into a sunny smile and he produced a pen from his pockets. In giant, neat block letters he printed "STARK" on a beam of wood and smiled like a teacher watching their students graduate.

"Now it's done."

Clint rolled his eyes and sighed sarcastically: "sure, that's better."

"Come on, boys- we don't know how long he'll be out. We're going to move him to the alley beside the gin mill down the street."

Meanwhile, Thor had busied himself moving the massive stones they had used to blockade the view of "their corner" of the now deserted park back to their original location.

"_And it is good that I came with the others, they would have never been capable of moving these boulders without me_," Thor smiled, genuinely pleased at his chance to be a hero- even if it was only in a small way.

"You take the saying _whistle while you work_ to a whole new level, Thor," Natasha smirked as she folded the recently acquired assortment of food and medical supplies into a tattered blanket and tied it into a knot.

"I do not know of this saying," Thor frowned, furrowing his brow in disappointment. With his long, unkempt straw-colored hair hanging loosely around his face, he looked every bit like a scolded golden retriever.

"It means to be happy while you're doing whatever job you have, even if it's grunt work," Natasha smiled at the son of Norway's ambassador to the U.S. who still appeared confused.

"And grunt work is _grovarbeidet_- dirty work, yes?"

"Exactly. You're getting better at this, Thor!" Natasha smiled as Thor glowed in the warmth of her compliment. She could've told him that he was the most handsome guy on the planet and he just won a million bucks, and he would be the same level of excited. No one could dislike Thor- which was why he was the distraction on their operations. He was loyal and kept his promises, no matter what the personal cost. That's how he ended up a runaway- by following Loki. Not just because he was his brother, but because he had promised that he would keep him safe when they were younger and Loki was almost hurt in a hunting accident, years before Loki decided to run away. He had kept that promise ever since.

A few feet away, a disheveled and disheartened Bruce was picking up the debris of evidence that they had been staying at the park and dumping it into trashcans scattered across the park. He was muttering, as he always did after he had an "episode". No one understood what he was saying, but it seemed to have some dark, ritualistic meaning.

Once, Natasha had recognized as part of _Alice in Wonderland_: "I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!" Other times, it would seem to merely be gibberish: "We have caught the sniper like a duck in a noose" or, "go tell Alice to open her eyes as the rainbow ends in the mirror", but he would whisper it with such fervor that a passerby might think he was praying. Occasionally, he would get so worked up that he would simply sit down wherever he was and whisper to himself until Tony- and only Tony- came and gently led him back to reality. Natasha and Thor figured they were better off without disturbing him- he was getting his job done.

Thirty minutes later, a breathless and maniacally giggling Steve, Tony, Clint, and Loki ran up to the their friends and started talking over each other in excitement like a pack of puppies fighting over a ball.

"We got him over there without people noticing-"Steve starts.  
"-except-"  
"-except for this old lady—"

"—and she was like, _ancient, _a real stick in the mud—"Tony interjects.

"Tony, no."

"—she was old, alright, and she looked at us like she wanted to yell, 'dirty delinquent scoundrels!', and asks the Sarge how he's doing—"Clint continued.

"—and we're all flipping our wigs, and trying not to laugh until we get to where we're dumping the copper at," Tony commandeered the story back.

"So we lay him down, right? Next to a—"

"GET THIS- it was STEVE'S IDEA to put him next to a—"

"—this sleazy little joint—"

"—and Loki goes in and takes some passed out drunkards giggle juice—"

"—and puts it in Sarge's hand!"

The group was mass hysteria. Clint picked up Natasha and swung her around and kissed her cheek triumphantly, Tony's arm was clapped around Steve's shoulder, and even Loki had a wide smile and a gleam of pride in his eye.

"And right as we leave," Steve started, "shush, Tony- I'm telling this part! A dame comes stumbling out, and passes out beside him! And he starts to wake up, and he looks like he's been in a bar fight, tried to run off with some floozy, and passed out drunk!"

All four of the boys were near hysterics, Tony rolling on the ground with tears escaping from their dark brown prison. Natasha smirked at the boys fondly, and Thor's laughter echoed across the park.

"Now that is a story of conquest! If I could, I'd lay a feast for you victorious men!"

"Alright, alright," Steve interjected after wiping his eyes and dusting off his jeans, "we have to move. 'Tasha, where's Banner?" The mood shifted instantly.

"He's on the other side of the park getting rid of the rest of our trash. He did a good job- he even had a method and everything."

"So he's... okay?" Clint asked, tapping his forehead.

"I think s—"

Natasha was cut off by a crash and a scream of frustration. Tony took off and reached Bruce who was sitting cross-legged in front of a dented trash can and bleeding from only God knew where, whispering, "red hands, red blood, breath is gone, all is good", repeatedly.

"Hey, Bruce," Tony whispered softly, the rest of the group crowding around him. Bruce looked up at Tony, a tiny light of recognition passed through his eyes as he continued to rock back and forth and whisper.

"What's... what's wrong, big guy?"

Brown puppy dog eyes slowly met Tony's again and filled with tears.

"YOU CAN'T JUST SHOVE NEEDLES IN MY EYES AND THEN ASK ME WHAT I SEE!" Bruce exploded. The group looked at each other and slowly backed away, leaving Tony to deal with the hard situations.

"Hey, hey, look at me. No one's doing that here. No one's going to do that to you." Anger and hatred boiled up inside of Tony, hatred for Bruce's dad, hatred for the hospital he worked for, hatred for the fact that his own dad had partly funded the research that caused his best friend to be so shattered and scarred.

"Tony," a heart wrenching whisper floated out into the air, tentative, almost apologetic.

"What?"

"Tony, you guys should just leave me, I'm broken and I can't get fixed," Bruce whispered, "I slow you down, make you all miserable."

"Bruce Banner, I never want to hear you say those words again. You're a part of our family, and we aren't going to leave you, ever. Now what got you all shook up?" Tony sat down beside Bruce and enveloped him in a hug.

"I threw up..."he looked down ashamedly.

"I thought I smelled apples," Tony joked lightly, allowing Bruce to nuzzle his face into his shoulder, a sigh of laughter escaped from Bruce's mouth, tickling Tony's neck. He started rubbing his hands across the tiny boy's back in small, soothing circles. "It's alright; we thought you were over that, but maybe you're not. Maybe it depends on how intense the episode is; it was kind of bad today. It's not like we can exactly run a thorough scientific analysis of your physiology on the run, so you can't expect to be making a million breakthroughs a day. It's all a part of the process. How do you feel now?"

"Going..." his voice quivered and broke, "going back. Like apple bits coming back up...chaos."

Tony's heart broke with every word. He motioned to the team that it was ok for them to come back around before focusing his attention on the quivering boy in his arms.

"How did you feel this morning?"

"Good. I...played with Thor, and—and the sun came out, and I walked on my feet, and heard with my ears." Natasha and Clint looked at Tony inquisitively, who shrugged in turn. It was a code, some code that only Bruce knew, but it was _very_ important for him to walk on his feet and hear with his ears. Tony didn't even want to know what the doctors did to him to make him appreciate such basic body functions to such a high degree.

"I hate the bits," he choked out, "the bits that work, the bits that function like I'm a real boy. I hate it because I know it will go away. The sun goes dark, and chaos comes again." He finally lost it. "Bits?! Fluids!? _What am I_?!"

"You are my brilliant best friend in the whole entire world," Tony answered, kissing his forehead and hugging him tighter.

"I threw up on your blanket," Bruce elaborated.

"Yup. Definitely my best friend."

That elicited a snort from Clint, causing Bruce to giggle, and as if on cue, the group was enveloped in a giant group hug.

"Bruce, are you ready to move?" Steve asked gently.

"Uh-huh. I'm...I'm sorry guys. I'm really, really sorry."

"Friend! There is nothing to be apologetic for," Thor's voice boomed amiably. "There are many brave warriors in Trondheim who returned from battle with invisible scars. To me, these men are more heroic than the ones who return from battle bragging and laughing, for the ones who suffer are righteous men who fought the hardest and the longest! I feel the same way about you, Banner—you have fought foes which none of us shall ever face, and you fought bravely and survived. Unlike us, all of your battle wounds are internal, and you are facing them like a true warrior."

Loki's chest swelled with love for his older brother's ability to make anyone feel better about themselves, and was happy, for the millionth time, that he had chosen to run away with him. As everyone beamed at Thor's war analogy- to be called a warrior by Thor was no small feat- Bruce let loose an uncharacteristically loud "huzzah!", stood up, and clapped Thor on his back.

The group of kids and barely-teens turned and walked towards the city limits, the future in their eyes and hope in their hearts.


	2. Chapter 2: Running

Chapter 2: Running

The air was pregnant with the smell of incoming rain, and the leaves on the trees were turned down, each leaf filled with the hopes of being the first to be graced with sustaining drops of water. A light rumble of thunder filled the air, heralding its king, the incoming storm. Underneath the trees, the group of children lay tangled in each other's' arms, a mass of blankets underneath them serving as a makeshift mattress, and the warm air serving as the comforter. In front of them stretched a two mile expanse of wilderness and then Springville, Utah. Behind them was Buckley Mountain, where they detoured into the nature preserve on their way from Rings Creek to have a secluded place to sleep—which they were utilizing to their fullest advantage.

On the far right, Clint was balanced five feet in the air, back against the sturdy wood of an oak, legs stretched precariously in front of him on a thick branch, his bow in his lap. The string was unstrung to prevent it from snapping, but his hands were curled protectively over an arrow, and his quiver firmly attached to his back. Five feet below lay Natasha, her back also resting on the back of the oak, facing outward to where the noises of a new city hummed—if someone was coming into the woods, they would have to wake her up first. In her hands lay a pistol, pointed toward the sounds of Springville, and safety off.

The two of them had met before they had met the other five, Clint as a runaway from the circus who managed to be helpful in a mafia drug run, and Natasha as the daughter of the mafia capo who organized the ring that later took interest in the homeless boy who asked no questions and could be deadly with a bow and arrow.

Sprawled across the makeshift mattress two feet away from Natasha, Thor's mouth was turned into a grin as he twitched in his sleep like a new puppy dreaming of future adventures. Lying loosely at his side was the hammer he had picked up from the fight with Sgt. Amory, his other arm protectively covering his younger brother. Loki was curled up next to him, using Thor's abdomen as a pillow, his back turned away from the others. Thor had always been the more outgoing; their mother always said that they both were aptly named.

The eldest born of Odin Glücksburg, Norway's ambassador to the United States and distant cousin of the King, Thor had been next in line for the Dukedom, but they, along with many other children, were forced to evacuate to America when Germany showed an inclination to invade Norway. Unfortunately, it was no secret that Loki had been adopted from Germany, and looked every bit of it. Loki noted with vicious irony that Thor would have fared better in Germany than he, with his blonde hair, blue eyes, and warrior mentality. There was nowhere Loki belonged, he was a disgrace to his family name, and when it was time for them to return to Norway, he planned on staying in America by himself. Thor stubbornly refused to leave his brother's side, stating that "when he realizes it is time to return home, I will bring him back myself, safe from all harm."

"Sentimental fool," Loki thought, burrowing closer to his brother.

Tony's back was inches away from Loki's, and he was sleeping soundly and snoring without a care in the world. His clothes were twice as expensive as the others, a poster child for the term "rich runaway kid". No one had expected him to last as long as he did on his own, and to the public, it was a mystery how. The answer was curled up next to Tony, trying to take up the smallest amount of space imaginable and disappear altogether if he could. His curly dark hair peeked out around Tony's arm, like Tony would protect him. He breathed silently, but his body was tense, ready to run at the slightest noise. Bruce Banner knew the ropes; he had been on the run three years before he met Tony. He left home when he was nine, and had been roaming the country longer than any of the other kids. Tony managed to run away with him, and from what anyone could tell the two got along quite well.

Steve slept fitfully, propped up against a tree where he could see everyone. His bright blond hair and innocent but stern face that could be read like an open book made him appear to be every bit the leader. He grew up in a Catholic Orphanage in a tiny town in Colorado, and had planned to run away, but never did. One day, fate brought two sets of windblown runaways with snarky mouths and brilliant talent to his front door. They all were terrified of being separated from the other halves of the duos, and Steve suggested, "Hey, let's all be terrified _together _and get out of here". The rest, as they say, was history.

His ears perked up at the distant sound of thunder, and he could see the storm approaching them from the distant mountains.

"_Applesauce," _he thought, as he pulled himself up to inspect the air. "_We have enough time to get to Springville and find a dry space to sleep in if we go now."_

"Guys! Rain."

"Good job, you'll be a weather announcer one day," Stark groaned, pushing his face into the now sitting Bruce's thigh.

"Stark, if we get caught in the rain, _you_ will be complaining the loudest about not having dry clothes for two weeks. You'd be the first to catch pneumonia," Clint teased, hopping from his tree branch and landing dangerously close to Natasha.

"Hmuihufydrthyuh," mumbled Thor, who had not moved from his spot.

"What was that?"

"I _asked _if we could have 10 more minutes."

"Ten more minutes and we won't outrun the storm, now let's go. If you slept on a blanket, it's your duty to refill it. If we're missing a supply from anyone's blanket, it will be the owner's duty to restock it. What, Stark?" Steve rolled his eyes at Tony, who had his hand raised like a kindergartener.

"Bruce threw up on my blanket, am I excused?"

Bruce stopped placing medical supplies onto Natasha's blanket, groaned, and then buried his head in his hands.

"It was an accident..."

"No, Tony, that means you help someone else out, like Bruce is. Or do you understand that concept?"

"Sir, yes sir."

Five minutes later, the group was up and ambling south towards the buzz of civilization. Wind began howling ferociously, battling them at every step, clouds started to thicken and lightning danced through the clouds, seeming to move sideways instead of downwards. What little light the moon provided had a reddish pallor to it, the flashes of lightning serving as a better light source. Thor's eyes sparkled with anticipation as everyone else held their heads down and struggled through the harsh conditions.

"_Always fond of storms, that one. He should become a meteorologist," _Loki mused when he caught a sideways glance of Thor practically prancing through the storm.

"Is this not exciting? Like warriors on a march to battle!"

"Thor, you're something else," Natasha laughed with maternal affection.

"What am I?" Thor asked, thoroughly confused. Clint and Natasha just laughed, serving to further upset the storm chaser.

"It is a saying, brother, meaning that you're strange to them."

"Oh. But I _am_ a human, I can assure you."

This time they all laugh, even though Thor isn't quite sure what he said that was so amusing.

"Banner, are you ok?"

"Damn straight he's ok, Cap. He's a big boy; he can handle a _super scary storm_ like this one."

"Then let the _big boy_ speak for himself, Tony."

"Like you'd be able to hear him if he told you anything."

"Unlike you, some people are aware that they can be heard when speaking at a normal decibel," Steve quipped back.

"I-I'm fine, guys!" Bruce yelled, his voice almost instantly lost in a clap of thunder that made Thor shout with excitement, and everyone else shudder.

"See what I mean?"

"Shut up, Stark."

The clearing was in sight, "maybe twenty minutes away", Clint had estimated. They knew it was going to rain before they could reach any sort of shelter, but all of them managed to look surprised when heavy raindrops began their bitter assault on the earth, the seven of them caught as prisoners of war. It would take several risky days before any of them would be completely dry, risking sickness, blisters, fungi, and other water related damages. Steve looked angrily at the sky and asked God _why_. The sky rumbled angrily in reply, and the rain fell harder. A soft hand on his shoulder jarred him back to reality, and he turned to face gentle, knowing green eyes.

"You couldn't have known," Natasha said quietly, "If we hadn't gotten moving when we did, we'd be stuck out here even longer. No one's judging you."

Steve's mouth was set in a thin line as he nodded his wordless appreciation. He couldn't help feeling that he had failed as the group leader.

_"And who am I to be a leader? I'm only fourteen. I don't know how to take care of myself, let alone these kids. I can't even keep them out of the rain."_

But as he looked back to see the group working together to struggle uphill through the storm, and Tony flashed him a thumbs-up and an easygoing grin, he knew there was no way anyone would ever separate them, and he would do anything to keep them safe.

"_That's what makes a leader, Steve," _a voice inside of his head said gently, _"that's what makes you the best choice."_

The group trudged into the Springville Bus Station just as the sun started peeking through the clouds. Tony groaned.

"So much for sleeping."

"What I tell ya, Stark. Always being a stick in the mud," Clint teased.

"Don't be too hard on him, he needs his beauty sleep. I mean look at him now," Bruce bantered, eliciting a playful glare from Tony, and shocked laughter, bordering on sleep deprived hysteria, from everyone else.

"You're tip-toeing, big man..."

Tony swung his arm around Bruce's shoulder and squeezed.

"...You need to strut."

"The last thing we need is another you, Tony," grinned Natasha.

"No, the last thing we need is to be out here laughing when we're lucky enough to have empty bathrooms."

Bruce flushed and tried to disappear when Steve pointed a finger in his direction.

"We can at least try to get dry and clean in here. Uh, you don't mind being separated from us, 'Tasha?"

"I've gone to the bathroom by myself before, I can handle it," she smirked back, squeezing Bruce before walking off.

In the bathroom, the group set to work washing and paper-towel drying themselves and their clothes. Thor and Loki were arguing over a pair of dry socks that Thor found in his sack, Bruce slunk awkwardly into the stall furthest from the group, Clint kicked the door of the first stall and then promptly locked himself inside, and Tony marched self-righteously to Steve's side, staring down his reflection in the dingy mirror above an even dingier sink.

"You know, you didn't have to snap at Bruce like that. The kid never talks as it is- why would you scare the hell out of him when he finally does?"

"Tony, I'm tired of your attitude. I know you guys are close, but you aren't his mom. This is a group, and you can't only look out for each other; you need to think about what's best for everyone. And if he has a problem with me, let him talk to me."

"That's the thing, Spangles," Tony motioned to his red shirt with an American flag on it, "Bruce is too damn scared to even have a problem with you walking over him."

"Then that's his problem—not yours, not mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to finish drying off."

"_Sonofabitch_."

"Alright, we need someplace to stay, somewhere we can make money. Any ideas?"

"Uh, I- There's a, uh, shelter in town. We can stay a day and get food, maybe dry clothes, but they aren't open until 6pm, and the lines are really long. And we'd have to leave at 8 am the next day."

"Damn, Bruce, have you lived everywhere?" Clint joked, walking out of a stall and blowing his nose.

"Uh, I've been around," he briefly smiled back gently before looking at Steve.

"The kid is like a walking map and encyclopedia, he's being modest."

"Something you don't understand, I'm sure," Clint laughed hoarsely.

"Tiptoeing..._strut_," Tony said pointing from Bruce to himself.

"Guys! Focus. We need to find a job we can do until 6. Thor?"

"Ay, captain?"

"You, Clint, and Bruce will go into town, get some food, and look for a job. Loki, Tony, we need you on standby to come up with a strategy for whatever they find, so wait here, don't get caught. If someone asks you anything—well, you guys are great at talking your way out of situations, do it. Me and 'Tasha—"

"_'Tasha and I."_

"Enough of the smart remarks, Stark."

"I'm a genius; all of my remarks are smart, Spangles. Comes with the territory. Ask Brucey."

"_Tasha and I_ will scout for an alternate place to sleep, hopefully someplace dry. We'll meet here in 3 hours."

Meanwhile, in the female restrooms, an older lady with bright red hair, un-conservative makeup, and precocious clothing was talking to Natasha like she had known her for years.

"...and then my husband left me for some playgirl, that bastard."

Natasha frowned slightly, unsure of what to say next. The woman took Natasha's silence as the approval to continue with her story.

"And I don't have any kids, just a few cats. Everyone in town says I'm loony, sacrilegious, and I talk too much for a woman. You know, I think if I had a daughter, she'd look like you."

"Uh—"

"I mean, my red hair and my husband's light green eyes."

"My hair is actually br—"

"No, no, don't tell me. Let me think I met my daughter from a parallel universe!"

The woman was crazy, but she was honest and earnest, desperately seeking affection and attention. Natasha smiled, liking the idea that this lady could be her "alternate universe mom", and extended a hand to the woman.

"Natalie Rushman," she said, giving her a fake name but an authentic smile.

"Sharon Carter. It's a pleasure to meet you, Natalie. You're going to need dry clothes, dear. Do you have someplace to get them?"

"Oh, yes- I'm travelling with my older brothers. We just got caught in the rain on our way to the bus station. They're in the other bathroom, since, you know, they're men."

Sharon laughed heartily, and her face brightened, "Oh, then would you all care to visit? I'm just a lonely old cat-lady."

"I'm sorry; we really need to get on the road tonight. But if we ever have time in the future—"

"You'll have forgotten all about me, and that's ok! That's life. It was very nice to meet you, Miss Natalie. Your parents are lucky to have such a sweet little girl. But if you _do_ ever need me, here's my number," Sharon said, scribbling her phone number on a paper towel and handing it to Natasha.

"Um, thanks."

Bruce recalled a 24/7 pharmacy and convenience store being less than a mile from the bus station, and Thor and Clint were following in tired silence, occasionally punctuated by Clint sniffling.

"You're sick," Bruce stated simply after a few minutes, looking Clint in the eye with concern.

"Nah- it's just a little cold, nothing to be concerned about."

"It's always something to be concerned about," he replied somewhat cryptically, his lips pressed together in a disapproving scowl.

"I agree with our brother, Clint. It is imperative we take all precautions, especially in these wet conditions," Thor rumbled.

"You cannot be real. Tasha and I have bets that you stepped out of a fairy tale and accidentally ended up here."

"Mm-mm, stop trying to change the subject; you know we're right, and we'll get you some medicine and try to find you some dry clothes," Bruce asserted as they walked into the store. The clerk behind the register looked up in surprise and began eying the threesome warily. Thor imagined how suspicious they looked—three soaking wet pre-teen and teenage boys wandering into a store at the break of day—and flashed a genuine smile of reassurance and empathy. The older man grinned back and continued reading from his newspaper that had been stashed on the counter in front of him.

"Thunderbug, you go look for food—and don't just buy cake and toilet paper like you did the last time. Angry and I will try to sniff out some work, -and some medicine," he added when Bruce jabbed his bony fingers into his side.

"Angry?"

"Yeah, because...you know, you get angry. That's your shtick," Clint explained. Bruce huffed out a laugh, as if it were too painful for him to give a real one, and flashed a smile at the younger boy.

"Then you should be Hawk, since you like to be in the air and see everything—like a hawk."

"Not even a chance. My name needs to be cooler than that, Angry. Wait—woah!"

Clint watched in awe as Bruce nimbly stuffed a few containers of ibuprofen and cold medicine into a rucksack. If he wasn't looking closely, he would have assumed the bottles had magically disappeared.

"Man, how on earth—"

"Don't even ask."

They motioned to Thor that they'd meet him behind the store in 5 minutes as they exited, and began to walk around the building when Clint stopped dead in his tracks.

"I think we should get out of here..." he said, pointing at a sign taped to the building with a blank expression on his face. Bruce squinted and walked closer to the poster, stepping back like it had bitten him when the words came into focus.

Thor ambled outside to where the two boys were sitting cross-legged looking grimly at a piece of paper. Bruce held it up for Thor to see.

"I guess Amory got the word out," he explained quietly.

"It does appear to be that way."

"So what do we do?" Clint asked, swiping at his nose with a soggy sleeve.

"What we always do—we run."


	3. Chapter 3: Bad News

Chapter 3: Bad News

_Two days prior._

"Dr. Banner, Dr. Banner!" a short, slightly perspiring man called through the semi-empty hallway.

Dr. Bryan Banner looked up at the greying white tile ceiling and let a forceful curse word slip into the hospital-silence. He had been running around Ypsilanti State Hospital doing as many small jobs and experiments as he could just to avoid this conversation. The conversation about how his result-of-a-drunken-mistake, too-intelligent-for-his-own-good freak of a son was still causing mistakes in his life. About how all of their successful research had been running around the country for five years, somehow successfully eluding the best policemen and federal agents.

"What, Mr. White?" he snapped, rubbing his temples, suddenly aware of the overwhelming smell of medicine wafting through the air.

"You've been avoiding me all day; we have to have this talk. I'm sorry Dr. Banner, but if we cannot produce the same results we did on Robert, then the government is going to remove its funding. The CIA is moving on—trying to study harder on LSD and hallucinogens as a truth serum; they've given up on the idea of mind control."

"But we have proof!" Dr. Banner shouted, slamming his hand onto the already crumbling nurse's station desk, causing everyone to jump.

He was known as loose-cannon all around the hospital; the best in terms of experimental psychology, but the worst in terms of emotional stability. Luckily, Ypsilanti was never known for its outstanding morality or tender doctor care. When Dr. Banner suggested using his son as a testing subject on their experiment, "The Effect of Electro-shock therapy, Sensory Deprivation, and Constant Suggestions on the Mental Programmability of Children", they said "why not?", and looked the other way. Robert, better known as Bruce, had made everyone nervous anyway, due to his superior intellect and constantly condescending glances. What Ypsilanti was known for, however, were results. So, when the most successful test subject managed to escape with all of their valuable research, there was only so long that they could continue looking the other way.

"That proof," he countered, bravely poking a finger into Dr. Banner's chest, "is waltzing around the country with our largest contributor's son."

Dr. Banner's fist connected with Mr. White's nose with a sickeningly satisfactory crunch, and he looked down and spat, "I'll fix it."

"Mr. Stark," a lilting female voice called over the intercom, breaking the comfortable silence in the work shop. Howard Stark grunted and reached for the off-switch.

"Don't even think about turning me off, Mr. Stark. It sounds urgent," his secretary, Virginia, warned.

"More urgent than finishing the computer hardware for ENIAC before my deadline?" Howard retorted semi-sarcastically.

He had been working on the wiring for the Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer- one of the first computers designed for general purposes—and his partners were getting antsy. Normally, he wouldn't have cared about deadlines, but since his partners were the CIA, and the last scientific breakthrough in brainwashing methods being used at Ypsilanti State Hospital he had convinced them to look into was turning out horribly, he worked a bit harder to keep them pleased. They trusted him enough to funnel money into him to invest in potentially life-altering scientific advances, and the crackpot doctors of Ypsilanti had lowered his credibility significantly.

"Since when did you care about deadlines, sir?" Virginia teased gently, keeping a steady, professional tone.

"Since it meant I could avoid an 'urgent' phone call. What did Tony do this time? I can't keep covering up his trail forever" Howard took a swig of Schwitz and combed his fingers through his hair.

"It's not about Tony- it's a doctor from Ypsilanti Medical."

"Oh, God. I'm turning you off, Virginia."

"I've already patched him through, Mr. Stark."

"You're fired."

"Again? You won't fire me. What's your phone number?"

"...six?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Virginia laughed. "Dr. Banner? Mr. Stark is on the line."

The buzz of the intercom went off and Howard picked up the phone.

"Howard Stark speaking."

"Mr. Stark, we've got a situation. Project Artichoke is going extremely well on this end, but—"

"But you lost your star pupil, you've been unable to recreate the results that he showed, but you can't test him because now we have news that he and my son are gallivanting around the middle of nowhere with a band of crooks, runaways, and murderers who abuse cops in their spare time."

Howard strolled over to a desk and picked up the official police report that General Ross had intercepted from a Police Chief in some small, hick town in Utah. Tony's face was plastered all over the file, linking him with all sorts of criminal acts that dear old dad would have to hide from the public and create cover stories for. Howard thumbed through the file and stopped at the photo he was looking for: Tony had his arm slung around a smaller boy, mouth wide open- talking, probably; he never seemed to shut up when he was home-and looking absolutely happy. The smaller boy, the result of brilliant psychological research, was grinning easily at the camera, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"_He looks so normal_," Howard thought, taking another sip of beer and waiting for the voice on the other end to compose itself.

"Ah—"

"Save the spiel, Banner. I know all you're concerned with is whether or not I will continue to fund the project."

"And I know that all you're concerned with, whether you'll admit it or not, is whether or not your son comes home and stops embarrassing you to the public. So maybe we can help each other."

"And what would be my benefit from working with you, Dr. Banner?"

"You may be smart, Stark, but we both know that _I'm smarter_. With your money and my brain, we could not only get what we want, but more."

"What makes you so sure you're smarter than I am? More importantly, what makes you think that you are smarter than a group of federal agents who are sweeping the surrounding areas for me?"

"I'm one of the eight smartest men in the world. My IQ is so high, I'm practically psychic."

"Then why didn't you foresee your son running away with your research in a horrified stupor after you convinced him he murdered his own mother?"

Silence.

"Fine. But we'll see who's laughing when it's revealed that my son and your son are in a relationship. The best part is that it doesn't even have to be true, but...you saw the pictures in the packet. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch for tabloid writers. And while I'm at it, we could let it slip that your son ran away because of parental abuse and became a mastermind criminal strategist. And—wait! Do you hear that? Oh, that's the sound of hundreds of your supporters not buying your products, giving you deals, or giving you loans."

"I'm listening..."

"I knew you'd say that," Dr. Banner chuckled menacingly. "So we both could do with some connections to the mafia- safety, money, illegal pharmaceuticals... _whatever_. The girl, Natasha, she could be the goose that lays the golden egg. And I happen to have her father's number sitting in front of me. Thor and Loki are our chance to go international, as well as make a nice sum of money for returning them _safe and sound _after some _horrid_ army doctor performed some tests on them that would make them the perfect spies."

"We're not at war with Norway, doctor."

"Not _yet. _But look at the world ever since the bomb; you never know when something could change. Russia changed."

"We never trusted Russia—"

"I didn't come here for a history lesson, Stark. All I'm saying is we test some new mind control and reconnaissance methods on the ambassador's kids and the Mafioso's girl. Then find an excuse to reconnect in order to see if we can reproduce long-term effects that last outside of the environment of a hospital with constant conditioning. And boom. Jackpot for me, business connections for you—everybody's happy."

"And what about the other two? You know—the blonde one and the short one? Anything we should be concerned with?"

"They're orphans, no one cares about them. The only family the short one has is a brother who hasn't given him the time of day for years. But the blonde one could be a good soldier; he has the physique for it. We could work with him or just put him in testing to see his candidacy for the Manchurian Candidate Program."

Dr. Banner was ecstatic- he had Stark right where he wanted him. His plan was foolproof: in a matter of weeks, they were going to bring down The Runaways single-handedly, and hand a bunch of super spies back to their parents.

"I'll agree to work with you, but we're doing things my way," Howard growled.

"But of course," Dr. Banner mewled sarcastically. "I'll call Mr. Romanoff and tell him I have a way to bring his daughter back with all his secrets intact. We'll conference call you. It was lovely talking to you, Mr. Stark."

"Go to hell, Banner," Howard spewed viciously before slamming down the phone. Howard Stark in a compromising situation? _Preposterous_. He had to get the upper hand _somehow_.

"Virginia?"

"Yes sir?"

"I need you to make some calls for me... we're increasing the search radius for Tony by 200 miles, and increase the reward, too. Make this as public as you can, I want Tony back here."

"Right away, sir. And Stark?"

"Yes?"

"I'm happy you're restarting the search. For a second, I thought you really didn't care."

"Of course I care, Virginia; that's my son. Now hop to it."

"Sir."

Howard sat down in a swivel chair and turned to face the window and sighed. Tony would be back home and paying for his actions before you could say "beating of a lifetime".

_Today._

"You do not appear to be faring well, friend," Thor whispered as Clint closed his eyes and let out a labored breath. His skin was unnaturally pale due to the water clinging to his clothes, giving him the pallor of a dead man. Clint opened his eyes and gave a weak smile as he waved Thor off.

"Actually, Angry gave me some medicine and my nose cleared up and my throat isn't sore anymore. I'm feeling better, really."

"My brother can create masterful stories that could lead a grown man to believe that the sky is brown and filled with chocolate. If I can decipher when he is lying, I can definitely tell when you are attempting to placate me with fiction."

Before Clint could answer, Steve, Loki, Natasha, and Tony speedily rounded the corner to the back of the bus station with a look of panic on their faces. Steve glanced around and scowled confusedly at the trio of shoppers as Loki ran to Thor. Although he tried to maintain a neutral facial expression, anyone could tell he was worried about his brother.

"What happened to you, brother? We all heard the emergency signal go off and ran here as fast as we could. Don't tell me you accidentally set it off again. For the last time, it's not actually a drink, you dolt! It's a party popper- it explodes and is certainly not filled with liquid." Loki was rambling- something he _never_ did unless he was nervous. Loki had earned the nickname the King of Cool, not only because of his unnaturally cold hands, but his perpetually cool demeanor. Only his love for his brother could break through his shell and bring his emotions closer to the surface.

"We are fine physically, I assure you," Thor said, pulling Loki to his side protectively, "but we have some discon—dis...con... some bad news."

"It'd better be really _disconcerting_ because we were all in the middle of a job," Natasha snapped.

"We need to leave as soon as possible. The town is on high alert for something: even out-of-town coppers are here, and the store clerk didn't seem too fond of us. We just need to scram, my bow finger is getting twitchy, and I'd like for whatever I shoot not to put me in jail."


	4. Chapter 4: Staying

Chapter 4: Staying

"No, Steve, look. We have to leave. Now." Clint's eyes were glossy with fever, dampening the force of his words. The blonde boy shrugged him off in protest.

"You're not in a condition to run anywhere. We stay. I don't care if the number of policemen is making you a little twitchy; you need rest more than any of us."

"It's not just that," Bruce started, shuffling his feet in the overgrown grass and staring into the nearby forest. Steve leaned menacingly on the muddy clay wall of the bus station and dug his feet into the gravelly dirt.

"Well then, what is it?"

"We found these," he said, handing over a piece of paper, "at the store."

"Shi—_Shoot_."

Natasha, Tony, and Loki scrambled over each other to look at what had made the normally unflappable Steve lose his cool.

"At least it's a good picture of me," Tony remarked drily. Natasha shot him a look that could have curdled milk and put a soft hand on Steve's shoulder.

"What do we do?" she asked, staring at the giant red "WANTED" print on the paper.

"We have to run, I guess. But Bruce, why does it say—"

"Oh, _come on_," Tony interrupted, slinging an arm around his best friend's shoulder, "I don't get a 'dangerous, do not engage'? That's lame."

"Well, apparently, I did manage to kidnap you," Bruce replied wryly, "that lowers your hipness significantly."

Steve glared at Tony, who met his gaze with equal intensity and unparalleled anger; his brown eyes were almost black, daring Steve—or anyone else, for that matter—to say another word.

_"I'll just have to talk to Bruce later. If his presence here is threatening _my _team, I swear I'll..."_ Steve stopped and grabbed a fistful of hair and leaned back against the wall. _"...but Bruce _is_ a part of my team. But we'd be a lot safer without him, and if he goes, Tony goes...meaning no more bad attitudes, no one to undermine my authority without cause. "_

A loud, terror-stricken howl coming from the calmest one of the group jarred Steve from his introspection. _Natasha._ He looked down and saw Clint lying on the ground, mouth open, his face glistening with sweat like morning dew clinging to a dying blade of grass. Natasha cradled his head in her arms and desperately tried to administer what basic first aid she knew.

"Tasha, you need to back up. He might be contagious."

She nodded and stepped away from him, allowing Bruce to replace her. He leaned his ear in close to Clint's paling mouth, placed a hand on his chest, and nodded grimly.

"He's burning up, but he's breathing. His lungs are filled with mucus; he needs to get it out. 'Tasha, can you sit here and let me lean him against you? We need to keep him propped up at a 45 degree angle; otherwise, he'll choke. It's probably exhaustion and a really bad strain of the flu. Rain, cold, stress, and less than sanitary living conditions will do it for a guy."

"What do we need to do, Banner?" Steve asked coolly.

"This isn't a pop some Tylenol and wait it out cold," Bruce said grimly, "we need a medical facility, or at least someplace clean, warm, and dry."

"Swell, we're known, hunted fugitives who need to go to the hospital," Tony sighed.

"Maybe I am mistaken, but there is nothing _swell_—"

"Sarcasm, Thor."

Natasha's hand slowly curled over the little card in her pocket as a tiny burst of hope filled her heart. "Sharon Carter...," she muttered.

"What's that?" Steve asked.

"A lady I met in the bus station washroom—and no, Steve, I didn't tell her anything about us, or give her any names—but she was old and adorable, and she wanted me to visit her... and bring my 'brothers'."

"Can we trust her?" Loki asked skeptically.

"Do we have the luxury of trust? Clint is in desperate need of help. I say we go," Thor declared with finality.

"We need to move fast," Bruce agreed timidly.

"Steve?"

"Well, it doesn't look like we have much of a choice. Go ahead and give her a call, but we have to move through the woods."

Clint coughed feebly and mumbled a few words into Bruce's ear before closing his eyes again.

"Don't worry, Hawk. I'll make you better."


	5. Chapter 5: In the Still of the Morning

Chapter 5: In the Still of the Morning

Natasha knocked nervously on the bright blue door of an equally blue house in the middle of the back woods. A motor car was parked in front of the building, and lawn gnomes were scattered haphazardly throughout the yard. The front porch, a splash of bright yellow in a sea of deep blue, was littered with homemade wind chimes that played a strangely soothing discordant melody in the wind.

Steve surveyed his surroundings in awe. "Are you sure this is the right house, 'Tasha? It's a little..._eccentric_."

"_Horrendous_," Tony and Steve ended at the same time, eliciting a small chuckle from the elderly lady who had opened the door just in time to catch the statement.

"No, no, you're at the right house," Sharon smiled, ushering the five boys and one girl into her home. Thor and Steve were carrying Clint between them as he babbled incoherently, skin a sickly combination of white and yellow.

"Interesting family you have, Miss Natalie," she noted as Bruce laid Clint onto her sofa, and Tony and Thor raided the fridge. Steve and Loki looked on, mortified.

"They're crazy, but I love them," Natasha smiled softly as she walked to Clint and took hold of his hand.

"Ma'am, I'm Stanley, I'm the oldest. I apologize so much, we've just... we've been on the road a lot. They're excited to be in an actual house, not a hotel."

"Not a problem, dear- you all look like you could use a hot bath and some dry clothes. Luckily, I happen to have some nephews around your sizes, and Natalie can wear my old clothes! It'll be a blast from the past. The 30's were the best decade ever."

"I don't doubt it, ma'am," Steve replied politely.

"And stop calling me ma'am, it makes me feel old!"

"Um, Ms. Carter- if you don't mind, our brother is sick and I need some medicine to take care of him. W-we ran out and our parents sent the rest to where we're headed. Do you think you could take me into town to buy some? I mean, if it's not a problem, that is."

"Oh, sweetie—I just want to hug him and never let him go, good Lord—"

"I know the feeling." Tony smirked. Loki smacked him.

"But the motor car is in need of fixing... but don't worry! Since I live by myself and don't feel like driving all the time, I have a candy striper who delivers my medicine every Tuesday morning, so she'll be by tomorrow 'round 8:30. I can get her to get you whatever you need—on me."

"We really appreciate it," Bruce smiled softly and began to rub a cool washcloth he magically apprehended on Clint's forehead. The feverish boy stirred and mumbled something under his breath to Natasha and she squeezed his hand in reassurance.

* * *

**_T_**_hey were running through the alley ways. _Thunderclouds eclipsed the moonlight and hurled raindrops down, soaking their clothes. Their shoes were useless and bursting with water on each step, their feet as wet as the pavement they ran on. They dashed block after block in a labyrinth of grey concrete and garbage heaps, trying to escape. Natasha grabbed Clint's hand, trying to keep up the brisk and steady pace he set. She was much smaller than he was, and was matching him stride for stride, but they had to move faster.

Clint couldn't begin to fathom what horrors awaited Natasha if they were caught. He knew he would be as good as dead, but he couldn't bear the thought of them hurting Natasha. He wouldn't let that happen—he _couldn't_ let that happen. Even if it was the last thing he did. They'd done too much damage to the girl already, hurtling her into the lifestyle of drugs, guns, and violence at such a young age.

The girl stumbled, but he had a tight grip on her and yanked her to her feet. He heard her stomach rumble and muttered a curse word. The last meal they had eaten was scarce: a sandwich shared between them both, and a thermos of water. Natasha and Clint were being hounded out of concealment by Natasha's dangerous family, forced to leave behind the tiny amount of food and supplies they had stuffed in their knapsacks. Clint remembered, with bitter amusement, learning about how your body was supposed to keep you from feeling hungry in times of stress.

"_Funny how the textbooks never seem to match up with real life," _he thought, as he wondered how he had gotten into this situation. He already knew the answer, though; it was for Natasha. Like many choices he'd made prior, he did it so Natasha would be safe.

"Keep up," he murmured gently, pulling her along. She glared up at him; trying to show that she was keeping up and strong, but he saw the pallor in her skin and the glassiness of her eyes. She couldn't hold up like this forever, as hard as she was trying.

"Sorry about this," Clint muttered and jerked her upward in a fast, yet delicate movement, into his arms. He knew she despised this, but it was the only way they could keep up the pace he had set. Normally, Natasha excelled him in any type of physical activity, but this _wasn't _normally. He could hear the footsteps getting closer, so he did the one thing he'd always been good at.

Clint ran.

He ran as fast as his body would let him. He ran through street after street, jumping over garbage and debris that blocked their path; all the while searching for an escape from this prison of walls. Their only chance was to be out in the open with civilians, where they couldn't hurt them, if only for a little while.

* * *

The next day, Steve woke up feeling well-rested, comfortable, and dry for the first time in several months. The bright, new rays of sunshine were resting gently over the room; the glass wind chime outside of the window flinging rainbows around the bedroom. A faint ticking noise echoed through the air, accompanying the birds who had begun their morning cantata.

Everything was peaceful for once; the police weren't five minutes off their trail, they didn't have to run from rainstorms, insects weren't using them as beds. It was almost..._ normal_. He felt a pang of guilt hit his lower stomach as he looked around at the group jumbled on top of the king sized bed.

"_This is what they deserve... Not to be running around the country._"

Steve glanced at the clock: 5:30 am, the time he always woke up. It was a half hour before everyone else woke up, when he would take time to pray, formulate a tentative plan for the day, and gear up mentally for the challenges life would inevitably fling haphazardly their way. Despite all that life had done to him, he still clung to his faith. It was drilled into him at St. Emiliani's, and ironically, he felt closer to God now than when he was assured a bed and clean clothes every day. He was certain some of the others scoffed at the very _idea_ of God, but He was something constant in Steve's life—the nagging in the back of his head that told him he was meant to lead and to do it judiciously, to make something great out of himself.

_"Dear Lord, thanks for Sharon opening her home to us and it not being a trap... Please let this last as long as it can. At least until Clint gets better? _Please? _This is the most peace we've had in a while, and I think we all could use the break. In Jesus' name I pray, Amen."_

Steve felt the bed shift and recoiled. Natasha's green eyes, illuminated in the young sunlight, peered back at him. She offered a sleepy smile as she pushed Tony's arm off of her stomach and turned onto her side to look at Steve.

"You know, you can go back to sleep," she whispered.

"Old habits die hard, I guess."

"I know, I know. We're okay, Steve- for right now, at least."

"I was just thinking about how you guys deserve this all the time," Steve admitted. It was easy for him to open up to Natasha. He guessed it was because they shared the same desire for leadership; or maybe it was because she had the same unflappable, level-headed approach to life that she used in fights. Whatever it was, he was extremely thankful she was a part of the team.

"It's not your fault our lives have gone down the pooper. We can't ever have this, really. But I don't think any of us were really cut out for... _this_, you know?"

Steve sighed and lied back down, hands laced behind his head.

"You're right... heck, you're always right."

"Of course I'm right. Now stop being such a wet rag and enjoy yourself, Steve," Natasha smiled and nudged his leg. "For once, you don't have to be the man with the plan. This is a well-deserved break... for all of us. So go back to sleep, we don't have to be up until 8. And if you're not snoring as loudly as Thor, I'm waking up and kicking your behind, alright?"

"Alright... Thanks, 'Tash. Clint's lucky to have a girlfriend—erm, a friend—like you."

"I'm not Clint's—ah, forget it. But yeah, don't worry about it. I'll always be here to talk sense into you, Rogers."

Steve smiled and closed his eyes and finally, _finally_ relaxed. He felt himself drift off into dreamland, where everyone was safe, healthy, and happy with their lives.

* * *

In the living room, Bruce was propping up a coughing, feverish Clint whose mind was several years away. When they first met, Clint was in dire condition, rendered unconscious after losing blood from a gunshot wound that thankfully didn't knick any vital organs. He had had a brief moment of lucidity where he looked up at Bruce and asked if he was going to die. Bruce had reassured the younger boy that he would take care of him, and then Clint drifted out of consciousness. In the brief moment before he slipped away, though, he had trust in his eyes—something that very few people gave Bruce once they got to know him. That trust never went away with Clint. Sure, he was still reserved and on egg-shells around Bruce, but he at least had the decency to _trust_ him.

Under normal conditions, this would have been just a regular cold that could have blown over relatively quickly. But this was them, and they never could have normal conditions. Bruce smirked bitterly to himself. Normalcy... what he'd give just to be normal for one day. To have the voices in his head be his own, to not be plagued by memories he wasn't even sure he witnessed in the first place... what he'd give to not be the weakest link on the team that Steve wanted to get rid of constantly, to be useful when someone wasn't about to die. Lying Clint back down onto the sofa, he dipped the wash cloth into a cup of cold water and repressed a shiver. Something about cold water and electricity, a memory he could only see faintly... Bruce shrugged off the feeling and ran the washcloth over Clint's forehead and put an ear to his mouth to hear if his lungs had cleared any.

"Run, Nat... Run," Clint murmured for the hundredth time that night, and, for the hundredth time that night, Bruce wished he could wake him up from his nightmare.

_"I wonder what he's dreaming about..."_

* * *

**_I_**_n the distance, Clint's worst fears corporealized._

They'd been cornered; a group of men taking formation about a block in front of them, and another about 10 feet behind.

With a rush of excitement, e noticed that just up ahead was a fire escape, the ladder pulled down. Clint blessed his circus training as he nimbly shimmied his way up the ladder, Natasha shifted onto his back. His fingers nearly slipped because of the coating of rain, but he held on determinedly. Clint slipped up one platform, then another, then another. On the second platform, he could hear the people organize and began to panic. Any minute now they could be here and- and. And he didn't want to think about that. He needed to get Natasha up to that roof and out of range from the guns.

He pushed his feet faster and pulled harder, the goal set in his mind. Now all he had to do was achieve it.

"Come on, only a few more steps to the top!"

_Bang!_

A cacophony of gunfire rang out through the empty streets. They had caught up with them, and were now firing wildly. Clint shuffled Natasha to the front of him and, despite the awkward position, kept climbing. In a flash of poignancy and a burst of realization, he felt a sharp pain and then something warm stretch down his side. He'd been hit.

He swung the Natasha onto the roof with the last of his strength and lurched down a step. She landed in a low crouch and reached out a hand to him, screaming his name as she cried.

"Clint! Oh God, Clint! Grab my hand!"

It was too late. He had already lost his grip and was beginning to stumble down the ladder, vision blurred at the edges. He felt the same way he felt when falling off the trapeze for the first time; like his gut had become numb and was trying to escape out the top of his ribcage. He saw her face peek over the rooftop, and he smiled, glad that her face was the last image he would see.

"Run, Nat... Run!"

* * *

Tony had woken up at 6 and tried desperately to fall back asleep. At home, he never woke up before 12 unless it was a school day. Heck, on some school days he still didn't wake up until 12. Being on the run for a year taught him how to wake up early, no matter how late he went to sleep. He could run off of 2 hours of sleep and half a cup of coffee for _days_.

He smirked, sat up, and surveyed the room. Everyone was in place except Clint and Bruce. Knowing Bruce, he probably didn't sleep at all. The guy was like Mother Theresa with mental disorders, he thought fondly. His smirk grew into a soft grin as he climbed over Natasha and Steve to get out of the bed.

He padded softly into the living room, and stopped for a moment, taking in the scenery. Sure enough, Bruce was up and pouring a combination of medicines into Clint's mouth while simultaneously checking his breathing.

"Hey, Big Guy," Tony whispered, climbing onto the sofa beside Bruce. Bruce smiled softly and scrunched up his face to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose without needing to move his hands from Clint's forehead. They slid back down immediately, and Tony chuckled and pushed them up with a gentle poke.

"You're too damn adorable, you know that?"

A light blush played at Bruce's cheeks and he looked down at Clint, but he was smiling harder now. Tony felt a tug on his heart. Seeing Bruce smile... it was like watching kittens play with a ball of yarn or something. For a moment, he thought that if he could make him smile, it didn't matter if they were on the run for the rest of their lives...

_"Wait. What? Did I really just think that? God, I'm in too deep. What's wrong with me?"_

"So how's our favorite invalid?" Tony asked, shaking away his thoughts.

"Doing better, but... it's still serious. His fever is still high, and his lungs are still filled with mucus that's saturated with the virus, but he's too weak to cough it all up."

"What is he murmuring about? It's creeping me out."

"He's...he's having a nightmare. I just wish there was something I could do. He's been slipping in and out of consciousness, but he needs the rest."

"You know... you need rest, too, Big Guy."

"I'm fine; I can go a while without sleep. Besides, I need to be awake in order to make sure he sits up when he needs to cough, and that he's cool until the fever breaks."

As if on cue, Clint's breathing became labored and Bruce sat him up and waited for him to feebly begin coughing, sounding more like heavy breathing than an actual cough. Bruce took a bulb syringe and suctioned out the mucus from his throat, giving Tony a look as if to say, "See what I mean?"

"I can do that for you."

"Tony—"

"No, no... You've got two hours, go on to sleep. I'll take care of Robin Hood, I promise."

"Um, I'll stay here so if you need me, you can just wake me up without waking up everyone else."

"Sounds boss," Tony replied flippantly. On the inside, he was relieved that Bruce would be a poke away in case he screwed something up. It wasn't that Tony was incapable of administering basic first aid, but Bruce spent half of his life in a hospital, soaking up every little bit of knowledge he could get his hands on, while Tony was breaking into his dad's lab and learning everything that existed about machines and computers. A broken car he could handle; a broken person, not so much. His relief turned into absolute joy as he felt Bruce curl up beside him and rest his head in his lap. Tony smiled and ran a hand through the mass of curly brown hair that made Bruce look like an adorably shaggy puppy before turning his attention to Clint who was still murmuring in his sleep.

* * *

**_C_**_lint closed his eyes and embraced unconsciousness, resigned to the fact that he would be viciously tormented when..._if_ he woke up._ But it was fine so long as Natasha had gotten away safely.

Instead, he woke to four concerned faces, and one that was full of curiosity.

"So... Is he gonna die or not?"

"Tony!" the older blond boy scolded. The curious face twisted into one of feigned sympathy.

"Sorry, jeez!"

"Am I gonna die?" Clint asked the one who was clearly in charge.

"Of course not," Natasha whispered, stroking his hair. "These guys rescued us. They're going to help you get better."

"Don't worry, Clint," the smallest boy smiled reassuringly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger, "I'll make you better."

Satisfied with the answer, Clint fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6: In the Beginning

Chapter 6: In the Beginning

They sat together on the rooftop of St. Emiliani's Children's Home, the girl's head tucked under the crook of the boy's neck. The stars twinkled down on them knowingly, and the air was alive with electricity.

Something big was going to happen.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to run away?" Steve asked. "We could be like Bonnie and Clyde, and live in the outskirts of the city. No restrictions. None at all. It would just be us, the future Bonnie and Clyde"

"Bonnie and Clyde," Peggy agreed. "But I'd worry about the younger kids here. The ones I've taken under my wing. What would happen to them after we leave?"

"They'll be fine. We, on the other hand, could be _great_."

Silence enveloped them, calming down an arising argument. The offer was so very tempting to both. An owl hooted in the distance, and everything was at peace.

That peace was interrupted by the boy.

"Let's run away. Together."

Together.

The girl blushed in the darkness, and a smile crept its way onto her lips.

"Ok."

* * *

"Ok- I am _not_ staying here. Look at these sheets; they must be relics from the 1800s. And the blankets—if we were Indians, I'd say they came with a side of smallpox. You've got to be kidding me," a kid with soaking wet dark brown hair said, shaking the raindrops still clinging to his clothes and body onto the aforementioned blankets.

Steve didn't like him immediately.

"Tony, that's the least of our worries," a smaller boy with equally glistening brown hair chastised softly, smiling a tight, fond smile, "What if... what if they call our parents?"

The taller boy sobered up for a second and then grabbed the younger boy, pulling him close—they must be brothers, Steve thought—and flashed an easy-going grin.

"Then we do what we always do—we run. I'm not staying in this dump a second longer than I have to."

Steve cleared his throat and walked into his room. The smaller boy flinched and coiled tightly around himself, fists balled at his side. The taller one- Tony, Steve assumed- stepped protectively in front of him, a charming, yet confrontational grin plastered on his face.

"You get used to it, I guess. It's really not that bad," he stated good naturedly, extending his hand to the smaller one first. He examined it like it had suddenly turned into a viper, so Steve started talking to him.

"I'm Steve Rogers, your roommate. I've been here... all my life, basically. So if you need help, I'd be more than happy to help you."

"I'm, uh, Bruce. It's nice to meet you, Steve." He loosely grasped Steve's hand and gave it a quick, weak shake.

"Tony Stark. And if you're wondering, yes, I'm _the _Tony Stark: genius, famous, and rich runaway kid." Tony grabbed Steve's hand and gave the firmest, most adult-like handshake Steve could imagine was possible for a kid his age.

"Tony..." Bruce warned. His voice was laced with amusement, and his eyes had a slight sparkle to them.

"Oh, you love it," Tony quipped back.

"No way—believe it or not, everyone doesn't enjoy the sound of your voice as much as you do, Stark."

"You can take your pick of the bunks. I didn't make my bed after lunch, so... all of them are fair game."

Four sets of unmade wooden bunk beds sat available for use. Steve's former roommates all were either adopted or moved to other rooms. Steve was well-liked among the nuns, so he managed to get a room all to himself for a few days, meaning he didn't have to set an example and have _the model bunk _all the time.

"Well aren't you a rebel?" Tony teased. Steve stiffened, but relaxed when he saw that the confrontational look in Tony's eyes had been replaced with a mischievous, friendly one.

"Yup, that's me: Steve the rebel," he shrugged.

"Oh, Rogers," Tony exclaimed, "we're going to have to work on your clever repartee'. It's lacking!"

"No, he just has good manners," Bruce's voice floated from the bottom bunk the furthest from the door. "I apologize for Tony's people skills. They're... _lacking_."

"Bruce! That hurt! How could you _say_ such things?" Tony gasped in pseudo-insult, tackling the boy onto his back and locking him in a headlock. For a second, Steve felt the urge to warn him to be gentle—Bruce looked like he could be snapped in two if the wind suddenly changed directions, let alone if he was caught in a wrestling match, friendly or otherwise. In a matter of seconds, though, they had switched places and Bruce had Tony in a headlock. He casually smiled up at Steve, and said, "Like I was saying... he lacks people skills."

Steve smiled warmly at the two of them, before warning them to separate, lest the nuns came by on their evening rounds.

"So, you two are brothers?"

"I prefer the term, "partners in crime" or "co-conspirators". I do the heist, and he drives the runaway car, that sort of thing. Whatever helps you sleep at night," Tony replied smoothly, winking at Bruce whose cheeks were suddenly deep crimson.

"How'd you end up here? If you don't mind me asking... you just, you seem too happy for your parents to have passed recently. Are you transfers- from Mother Theresa's, perhaps?"

"Uh, _no_- don't you remember? I'm the genius, rich _runaway_ kid? And this is my trusty sidekick. Long story short, some stiff in a robe found us getting kicked off the bus for riding without a ticket, realized we didn't have parents with us, and then realized who we were, loaded us into their car, and took us here."

A second later, two more boys tumbled into the dimly lit room, escorted by a furious Sister Sarah—the most level-headed, slow-tempered nun in the orphanage.

"_Boys! Boys, stop fussing or I will have to smack you again!"_ she exclaimed, waving around the wooden ruler, making a whooshing noise that could strike fear in grown Catholic men. The two boys continued to fight hand to hand until Sister Sarah brought down the ruler upon the bigger one's hands. Instantly, the larger, blonde boy let go of the smaller one's shoulder-length brown hair, sending him tumbling to the floor.

"You giant, bumbling oaf!"

"I'd rather be an oaf than a cry baby!"

"I hate you, Thor! You didn't have to come with me! Now we're going to be sent home!"

"You wouldn't have lasted a day out here, Loki! If it weren't for me, you'd be dead!"

They were back at each other's throats in a matter of seconds.

"BOYS!" Steve's voice reverberated through the air with authority, causing the whole room to stop and look at him. "Sister Sarah asked you nicely, if she has to ask you again, it'll be me who will do the smacking, and I hit harder than she does. Now are you going to listen, or do I need to get physical?"

Thor and Loki stepped away from each other and looked toward the ground. Thor's face held a look of sheepish embarrassment, whereas Loki's held a look of contempt and righteous indignation. He was silent, nonetheless. Sister Sarah flashed a relieved smile toward Steve and started to back out of the room.

"New kids, your parents are being notified of where you are. All of you are lucky to have parents who care about you. The kids here would pay good money to go where you've run away from. You'll be sent home when they're ready to collect you. But for tonight, get along. If I hear a peep from any of you, it'll be solitary and a spanking from Mother Superior—I used to live here, so I say this from experience: she hits harder than _Steve_."

The room was filled with a thick, palpable tension. Bruce had curled into the fetal position and Tony was stretched in front of him, whispering softly, Loki kicked the door post and sat cross-legged on the floor with a deadly grace; Thor crouched next to him and hugged him tight. Loki did not return the embrace, but he didn't fight it either, the righteous indignation in his face was transformed to a look of fear.

"They cannot... they cannot _do _that. We cannot... we must not go back," Loki's face was pale, and his icy blue eyes were distant.

"Brother, perhaps it is time to give up this poisonous dream and return home. Father and Mother are waiting with open arms—"

"Then they are the only ones. We all know where my lineage hails from. We all know that the blood of traitors and mass murderers run through my veins. I refuse to return to that... that lie. The illusion of belonging, when in truth, I belong nowhere. Thor, you can return. You didn't have to share in my burden... you are Odin's son, heir to the throne. But I... I am a descendant of the enemy; a shamed race, a desperate people. I am not part of your family."

Intrigued, Steve struggled to hear the larger one's reply. This can't be _the _Thor and Loki—sons of a Norwegian diplomat and real live Dukes! Why wouldn't they want to return home? His mind was racing a mile a minute, what was the right thing to do? He thought of his plans to run away with Peggy... but that was supposed to be just her and him against the world, not her and him with a tagalong group of runaway children. Plus... wasn't running away a bad thing? Surely it must be a sin?

"Loki, surely you know that that is not true! And if anyone tries to use your heritage against you, I will beat them down for speaking such vile things against my brother, who shares my own flesh and blood! Just because you are of German descent does not mean that you are personally accountable for every Norwegian fallen by German hands. You didn't invade our country. You didn't plunge the world into war!"

Stunned, the boy turned his attention to the other two disparaging young men.

"I can't go back! I can't go back! They'll kill me as soon as I get behind closed doors. Or worse, they'll...keep experimenting on me until I die a slow and painful death. But perhaps it'd be better that way, you know? Maybe I deserve to be dead. I can be with mom again, and away from _him_. Maybe I should just go back and let them kill me... it's what I deserve."

"Bruce, stop talking like that. You didn't kill your mom—"

"No, but I _am_ the reason she's dead! My life is worth so much less than hers! I'm not even a real person; I'm a mindless monster, Tony. It wouldn't even matter if I was de-"

"BRUCE BANNER. Stop it. If you were dead, I don't know what I'd do. I can't even imagine what my life would be like. I'd be dead on the street somewhere if it weren't for you."

"Or, you'd be at home; you'd be safe, warm, dry, and _loved_. Oh, Tony, I very well could have ruined your life, just like I did mom's."

"You know that's a lie! You really think my folks would have changed their minds about me? That my dad would put down the bottle? That he'd miraculously start noticing that my mom and I exist? That he'd be faithful, and I wouldn't have to stay up all night listening to my mom _cry_? They're the ones that screwed my life up. Bruce, you're the one who showed me that my life was worth fixing. Why won't you listen when I try to show you the same thing?"

"Because my life _isn't_ worth fixing, Tony. It's wrecked beyond repair."

"Nothing that Tony Stark can't fix with a wrench and some nails," Tony poked Bruce in the side and smiled widely. "Now, we're getting out of here before it's too late."

_"That settles it,"_ Steve thought. _"No boy should ever feel like his life means nothing. If running away from your parents was a sin, then suicide is definitely a cardinal sin. And that's what his returning would be, I guess... suicide. I can't have that blood on my hands!"_

"Um, guys? I know I don't know you all, and maybe it's none of my business, but I was thinking that maybe... maybe we could help each other?"

"What are you suggesting, big man on campus?"

"I was planning on... running away from St. Emiliani's tomorrow night, with a friend. I have it all planned out. You guys need to leave, and I know my way around Emi's. We could work together."

"Sorry, Tony Stark doesn't work on teams other than teams of two."

"And my brother and I are not leaving, we're going _home_." Loki pushed Thor's arms off from around him and he stood regally, looking down on everyone in the room.

"Speak for yourself! I'm leaving, even if I'm leaving by myself. And I'm leaving tonight. I don't have time to waste on unimportant, sniveling children."

"Neither do we, _Heine Kraut_. And frankly, I don't think I'd want to work with such a self-righteous, arrogant little-"

"GUYS! Just hear me out. Ok, what's the use of having three groups of kids running around Emi's, two of which don't have a clue about how to get around-"

"Um, no. I memorized the location of every security camera and guard post, and Bruce snatched the schedule of the nun's rounds. We'll get by perfectly fine. Come on, Bruce."

Tony grabbed Bruce by the arm and dragged him out of the bed. Bruce looked at Steve apologetically, and allowed himself to be pulled along.

"Fine, leave, see if I care. But what you _don't_ know is which cameras don't work, that there's a coded lock on one of the two main doors to the outside, and that schedule you've got? Not only is it from _two years ago_, so some of them don't even work here anymore, you don't know which have overtime duty and will be doing super-harsh bedtime rounds that last way longer than they're supposed to. You'll also need to know—"

"Ok, ok. We get it, we get it. You can help us, chief. But we're leaving tonight. I don't know what you overheard, but we can_not _be caught. Otherwise, bad things will go down for us."

"As well as for us," Thor rumbled. Loki glared at him, and began climbing onto the top bunk to open the window.

"And that window you're trying to open? Hasn't opened for five years, and the drop down is right in front of Mother Mary-Magdalene's prayer room, which she's going to be in for the next hour."

Loki dropped off the edge of the bed and onto his feet with the dexterity of a cat.

"Fine," he sniffed, "I'm listening."

* * *

"Peggy! Peggy, come on, open up!"

Steve knocked softly on the 13-16 year old girls' dorm door as an impatient group of four boys kept watch on the other side of the hallway. After a few minutes, a pair of black eyes peeked through a crack in the door.

"Oh hi, Steve. Peggy, it's your lover boy! Get out quickly so we don't get in trouble again!"

"Steve!" came the hushed reply. "What are you doing?! You're going to get us into trouble."

Steve grabbed Peggy's arm and pulled her close in front of him. "Remember how we talked about running away? Well, now's the perfect chance. I found some kids... New kids—runaways! They're relying on me to get them out tonight... and you should come with us."

"Oh, Steve, I didn't think you were serious! I thought you were being romantic! That you were just, I don't know, throwing out ideas! Steve, we can't leave. We're only 14! How will we survive?"

"Come on, Peggy! Haven't you wanted to see the world! Live in New York? Have a life of adventure?"

"Steve, you're being crazy. These kids should go home to their parents—"

"Their parents are bad people! One of them could even be _killed_. They're my responsibility now, I can feel it. I think, as crazy as it sounds, God wants me to do this. Either you leave with me now, or this is the last time you'll see me!"

Peggy's eyes softened, and she kissed Steve on the cheek.

"Hurry, Sister Margaret is coming for her round soon!" He grabbed her hand and tugged, but she didn't move. He looked at her confusedly as she pulled him back to her.

"No, Steve. My responsibility is here, with the kids. I work in the infirmary; I have kids depending on me, too. I think... I've found my calling that the sisters have been telling us all about. I feel like I'm making a difference."

"Then I'll stay, too."

Her eyes filled with tears as she stroked Steve's hair softly.

"I always knew you were meant for something bigger than this. Maybe this is your only chance. God works in mysterious ways, Steve. I'm sure that if you do right by these kids, God will do right for you. You're finding your purpose."

"But I don't want something bigger if it doesn't involve you. I love you, Peggy."

Peggy swiped bravely at the runaway tear that had started its journey down her cheek. A moment later, she composed herself and offered a sad smile. Placing a hand on his forehead, she gave him a blessing they learned in primary school:

"May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make His face shine upon you and give you his peace, and may you always love Jesus first, above all else."

And with a kiss on the cheek, she faded back into the darkness of her room and closed the door resolutely, leaving Steve alone in the hallway to embark on his journey alone.


	7. Chapter 7: Opening Doors

Chapter 7: Opening Doors

"Steve! Steve, wake up!" a girl's voice floated into Steve's ear.

"Peggy?" he murmured, meandering between the misty world of dreams and the harsh reality of the living.

"Who the hell is Peggy?" a sharper, sarcastic voice cut through, effectively jarring Steve from his sleep.

"God, Stark," Steve moaned sleepily, rolling onto his back from his side. Natasha's hands quickly rolled him back over. As he slowly opened his eyes, Natasha and Tony came into focus in the assault of sunlight coming from the window. Natasha was wearing a nearly fluorescent pink dress that was too big for her and styled like it was from the 30's, her red hair flashing in way that reminded Steve of Valentine's Day. It was like Lucille Ball, Rita Hayworth, and Rapunzel had crashed together in one tiny fourteen-year-old girl with bright red hair that was unevenly chopped to neck-length. Tony was wearing a pressed plaid shirt and dress slacks that made him look like he was headed to church, his barely-there mustache now missing from his face. Steve's lips tugged upwards in an amused grin as he draped his forearm over his eyes to block out the light.

"It's 8 o'clock," Natasha explained.

"So wakey-wakey, Sleeping Beauty."

Steve groaned and turned away from the barrage of sounds, light, and activity. He was just so _comfortable_.

"We've all bathed and dressed already. Go get yourself presentable, today's the day Sharon's nurse comes to check on her."

"I was wondering how you ended up in a pink dress... I thought I was still dreaming."

"Ha-ha-_ha_," said Natasha drily, accentuating each _ha_ with a punch to Steve's arm. "You're hilarious. Now go take a shower, you smell like a pig. Sharon has a bunch of her nephews' clothes laid out on the bed in the room next to the bathroom; you can see what fits and take it."

Steve yawned, stretched, and padded out of the room, leaving Natasha and Tony in awkward silence. After a few seconds, Tony stretched grandly and headed for the door.

"Well, as fun as waking Sleeping Beauty was... I have a piece of French toast and some eggs with my name on them. Who knew the Big Guy was secretly Betty Crocker?"

Tony scoffed, but the thought of Bruce in his element, cooking for them like they were a great big family… well, it made him feel like his limbic system had eaten a plate of Bruce's pancakes—warm and full.

"Actually—"Natasha began, grabbing Tony's wrist and pulling him back to her side, "I wanted to ask you a question about him..."

Tony's stomach flip-flopped like pancakes in a skillet.

"No, he's not going to murder you in your sleep; no, I will not tell you what happened to him; and no, you cannot have my French toast," Tony snapped protectively. He didn't know why, but something in the way Bruce bumbled around, afraid that he would break something made Tony feel very protective of his best friend. He had managed to unobtrusively and politely stumble into the heart of the usually conspicuously egotistical and callous genius runway kid, and remained there in a _very_ obtrusive manner.

"No, no- nothing like that. Stark, you know me; do you think I'm worried about someone killing me in my sleep? Or that I don't trust Bruce as much as you? Tony, I know him, and I know he wouldn't hurt a fly. I don't understand why people are so terrified by the world's most polite nerd."

Tony eyed her suspiciously, his dark eyes becoming disquieted with a mix of emotions. Damn Natasha and her ability to read people like a book.

"What are you talking about?"

"Tony, we all know that you guys are really close—"

"He's my best friend!"

"—and that he thinks the world of you, and relies on you _a lot_. I'm just saying don't alienate the rest of the team. You don't have a monopoly over him. Maybe if you'd let some of us try to get close to him, Steve wouldn't treat him like he's secretly Nannie Doss."

Tony rolled his eyes and stood up from the bed. He managed a good three inches before Natasha snatched his sleeve and yanked him back down, causing him to emit an undignified yelp.

"But that wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about—earlier, when we were making our way here to Sharon's, I noticed increased police activity at the station. There were ten cars parked outside, and in a town this size, that's unusual. I think at least three of those were fed."

"What do you want me to do, pour sugar in the tank?"

"No—I think it's time we put your big mouth and new little church mouse image to good use and do some recon."

* * *

"Where did you even learn how to cook like this, Robert?" Ms. Osborne asked in between bites of French toast.

"I dunno, I just...picked it up. My brothers and sisters really love my cooking, so I do it to keep them happy," Bruce shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips as he expertly flipped a piece of toast in the cast iron skillet.

"I swear you're the patron saint of children, kiddo! If I had kids, I'd hope they were as mischievous as Natalie, and as kind-hearted as you. Bet you couldn't hurt a fly!"

_Bet you I could._

Sharon hugged Bruce before dumping her empty plate into the sink and leaving the kitchen. Bruce's lips constricted into a tight grin that was more grimace than smile, and wordlessly turned his back to the red-headed 60-something year old lady.

_It comes back in flashes; little pieces of memory that float around his mind, always choosing to rear its ugly head at the least opportune moment._

_"You killed her, son."_

_But all Bruce sees is his father stabbing her, over and over and over like she's a voodoo doll. Red. There's too much red, he's drowning, but he can't leave. He sees her drowning, but he can't help her. The thoughts in his head, the thoughts that aren't his own, the memories that aren't his. She's drowning and he's drowning with her._

_"You killed her, you little freak."_

_Somewhere deep inside, Bruce knows that he may not have stabbed her, but he killed her because he didn't do anything to stop it._

* * *

Moments later, a disheveled looking Thor dressed in too-tight pants and shirt boisterously bounded into the kitchen with Loki ambling behind him like a dog who didn't want to go jogging with their owner. Even while sulking like a cantankerous hermit and dressed in slacks that were so high they could resist a flood, Loki retained a regal air to him that demanded attention.

"What delights hath you wrought for us this morning, Angry?" Thor boomed, standing behind Bruce and easily leaning over his shoulder to peer into the skillet.

"French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon. I made some eggs over easy for you, Luke; they're over there," Bruce pointed a finger and smiled warily at the younger, albeit taller, boy who was slouching in the corner of the kitchen. Loki swaggered over to the plate with his breakfast on it and sniffed, as if the food was beneath him, and then hungrily attacked the plate.

"Brother, how long must you be angry with me? I apologized several times!"

"You could have knocked several times, instead."

"We bathed together as children constantly, why do you act—"

"Thor—Theodore! _STOP_!" Loki buried his head in his hands.

"BOYS!" Steve barked, stopping the feuding fratrum before the fighting could escalate.

"Loki, you've got Clint-watch, Bruce can't keep running back and forth. Call us if you see anything weird, ok?"

Loki heaved a regal sigh and trudged out of the dining room.

The awkward silence was punctuated by the loud _slam_ of a door, and the equally obtrusive sound of feet stomping towards them.

"Steve: Recon. Back in one." Natasha said shortly, walking toward the door with a jacket in one hand and Tony in the other.

"Uuuh, what she said. But I'd better have pancakes left for me when I get back!"

The slimmer, yet stronger, girl pulled Tony out of the door as he clung to the door frame yelling, "BRUCE! DON'T LET THOR TAKE MY PANCAKES! TELL THEM I LOVE THEM!"

And with a flurry of motion and noise, Natasha and Tony were headed down Sharon's flamingoed driveway.

* * *

A few minutes later, a knock at the door produced an enthusiastic Sharon.

"That'll be my nurse," she explained, unlocking the door. "Now you boys keep your eyes in all the proper places, you hear me?" Sharon smiled and stuck her tongue out, looking every bit a mischievous teenager, save for the well-worn skin and well-earned crinkles at the corner of her eyes.

"Good morning, Miss Sharon."

"And a good morning to you, deary!"

"How's the cat?"

"Gone. He comes and goes as he wants. Caesar owns the place, I just clean up!"

"Your flowers are lovely; I don't believe they'd bloomed the last time I stopped by! And look at those tomatoes! I wish we could go back to growing Victory Gardens, Miss Sharon, I really do! Look how beautiful that looks! Mom barely grows the grass in the front yard! Oh! Forgive me; I forgot to tell you that Dad gave me your message. Where you told me to bring flu medication for your nephew- and a few other supplies? I did get to it in time, and I have them in my pack."

"Oh, bless you! Come on in and meet the gang!"

The cheery voice of Sharon and the airy, yet powerful voice of the young woman glided through the air and battled the despondency that lingered in the ether. Steve smiled at the lilting voices, imagining the sentences curling up like the leaves of a sunflower. His fingers itched for a pencil and a pad of paper, frivolities he had learned to live without. There was something about that girl's voice, though, that awakened the imagination in him; something that made him feel like his ten year old self, desperate to draw on any and everything, to record life as he saw it and to immortalize his feelings forever. He hadn't felt this way since he was back at Emi's with—

"_PEGGY?" _Steve blurted as Sharon opened the door wider, and a comely young woman stepped inside. She had wavy brown hair, a smile like the weather in May, and a face that paralleled her voice perfectly.

"I'm sorry, do I know y—wait, no, that's impossible."

"Not that impossible, I guess," Steve smiled, awkwardly opening his arms for a hug. Peggy stepped into it, and as he wrapped his arms around her, for the first time, Steve felt like he was home, safe and sound—like destiny wasn't barreling down on him.

When the pair broke apart, they were greeted by a sea of confused and curious faces.

"I am assuming this is the fair maiden that has won our brother's affections," Thor said, heartily shaking Peggy's hands, and smiling profusely. "He speaks of you often, my lady."

"Brother?" Peggy said inquisitively, looking to Steve who shrugged sheepishly and glanced at Sharon. The older lady raised both hands mischievously and merely muttered, "I only hear what I'm supposed to hear!", as she walked into the living room.

"So you were adopted, too, in the end? One of Sharon's brothers took you in?"

"Ah, not quite. Remember the boys who showed up at Emi's the day that I… the day that I left? Well, this is them, and we've sort of…been on the run ever since I left. Sharon's been giving us shelter for the past couple of days."

"Oh, that's so horrendous!"

"Horrendous?" Thor asked as he tilted his head, eyebrows gathering like thunderclouds.

"Well, I mean, you don't have any place to go home to! No one to feed you up or make sure your pants actually fit you," Sharon smiled and tugged Steve's too-large pants up to his waist. "No offense, but that's not my ideal home situation. Why didn't you just go back to Emi's?"

"Some of us can't, and Steve sticks with us because…well, I think he's a masochist," Bruce huffed a laugh and extended a hand. "Hi, I'm Robert, and that's Theodore. I was hoping I could assist you with the medicine, ah…" Here he paused politely, pretending not to remember the name.

"Peggy."

"Ah, that's it! I didn't catch it when Steve yelled it to the heavens earlier," Loki interjected smarmily, stepping into the dining room.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, too."

"That is my brother Lucas, but you may call him Luke. We are arguing right now, and he is of foul disposition."

"In my defense, I have been sitting with a semi-conscious boy, suctioning mucus from his throat while you all are in here having a family reunion. Can we please focus on what is important so we can leave this wretched place?"

"Alright then, soldier, if you're so ready to leave, then get ready to be put to work!" Peggy ordered, her lips twitching upward in the corners and a mischievous sparkle reaching her eyes.

Loki sniffed indignantly, but didn't make a protest.

"I see why you fancy her, Steven!" Thor smiled, pounding Steve on his back. "She's just like you!"


	8. Chapter 8: And Walking Through Them

Chapter 8: …And Walking Through Them

"Sir, this is Senior Special Agent Hill. We've got two of them in custody," a lady with tightly cropped brown hair, four blue eyes, and a tongue that was the tail of a scorpion hissed into the phone. "And frankly, with the amount of codependency we've been seeing, it shouldn't be too long till the others arrive."

The whole world was too bright, there were no edges to anything and too many edges on everything, and the room was filled with skeletons with black licorice innards spilling onto the floor, drowning everything in a sea of candy and viscera. Natasha had been transformed into an angel with a face consisting only of eyes; eyes that were filled with the cosmos, eyes that pulled you into space and got you lost in the void forever.

Tony closed his eyes toward the vast, infinite nothingness and felt himself not so much as fall, but be pulled downward: down and down and down until he was back in his own body. He opened his eyes and looked toward the floor; noting with mild annoyance that his own stomach had been sliced open and his insides were replaced with red licorice and jelly beans.

"Go…to…hell," he managed, before turning into a piñata and releasing his candy intestines onto the floor and blacking out.

"Oh, I hate it when they do that," another agent remarked calmly, adjusting his tie and picking up a briefcase. "We just cleaned that floor. And Hill? Call Stark, too."

* * *

**_Earlier_**

Howard Stark could be called many a thing: abrasive, unhealthy, obsessive. What he could not be called, however, was incompetent, unresourceful, or unimaginative.

"I'm a genius," he cooed as he pulled Virginia Potts out of her seat and twirled her around before snapping his fingers and picking up her phone.

"Do you even know how to use this by yourself?" Virginia teased, as her boss' hips swiveled in excitement.

"Of course; I'm a genius. Did you miss that whole thing back there?"

"Well, considering how you never make your own phone calls and make me do most of them, I just assumed there was a disconnect."

"Hey- one more remark like that, you and your job will have a disconne—Ah, yes, hello, this is Howard Stark, requesting to speak with Chief Special Agent Coulson, security clearance level Beta, code: Monarch."

"Security code, please?" a male's voice replied after a brief pause.

"Christ, Coulson, it's me. They switched the line over to you, so you know I just said the co—ok, ok, never mind. I used to think you were a stick in the mud just because you wanted to work your way up to Director, but since you turned down all of those promotions, I assume you're just an ass."

"What do you want, Stark? I don't have time, we have a human genetics modifier that actually works, and the guy we tested it on isn't so happy …I think he turned into a werewolf." The voice on the other line sounded utterly unimpressed and completely in control.

_Coulson._ Armageddon could be raging strong, and he would remain calm, cool, and in control. Howard smirked.

"Ok, this isn't so much of a scientific venture as it is an absolutely brilliant plan."

"Stark, I told you I don't have tim—"

"No, no, hear me out! What if I told you that I could deliver MKULTRA's prodigal son, the kid I promised from Ypsilanti, so that you didn't waste your money, you know? And also I could get the CIA two people who know the ins and outs of the mafia to test their newly developed interrogation techniques on, and a test subject for the Manchurian Candidate program, which I technically know nothing about."

"I'd think you were spitting a lot of nonsense, quite frankly. But say you can do these things—ah, hold on…"

Muffled sounds of grunting, punches landing, and physical exertion filled the dead air.

"Sorry about that. Say you can do these things—I know you're not asking for permission, so what would you need me to do?"

"I need you to convince Director Fury to spare some operatives to go down to Springville, Utah, guarantee my son's safety once the mission is done, and promise not to step foot into Ypsilanti Hospital."

"So you need _us_ to find your son and his runaway friends, Stark? You're getting sloppy in your execution."

"Come on! You owe me a favor! I delivered on the aerosolized delivery system of LSD for Pont-Saint-Esprit. I delivered on the more functional polygraph. I delivered on the vibranium. I'm delivering on the ENIAC. Heck, I even hooked you up with that cellist—"

"Fine. I'll talk to Fury," Coulson relented. "I'll call you back in fifteen."

Coulson stepped over the temporarily lifeless form of a short, stumpy man whose wounds were slowly being nursed back together and picked up a red phone attached to the wall.

"Hi, Ms. Smith, this is Agent Coulson. I need you to patch me through to Director Fury, please. Clearance level Alpha, code: Atlas."

"Coulson, please tell me you're calling with good news," a gruff, yet amiable voice answered from the other end of the phone.

"Actually, I'm calling with a favor _from Howard Stark_," Coulson slipped on a pair of sunglasses and discreetly rolled his eyes. The formerly lifeless body was starting to regain consciousness, and Agent Coulson lifted a prototype long-distance Taser gun and fired it, subduing the growling mass once more.

_"Huh. So that's what it does."_

"What's this favor?"

"He wants us to find his son and the kids helping him. In return, we get the successful Ypsilanti test subject, the mafia kids, and apparently, some athlete for Manchurian."

"That means bringing in Banner and Ypsilanti. I don't much like working with crazy, Coulson."

"Neither does Stark, sir. He requested that we leave Ypsilanti out of this. I was thinking we could use our own medical facilities to replicate the Ypsilanti tests and results. I know a few doctors who are foaming at the mouth to study this kid. And frankly, it'd go better than studying this Wolverine guy… we're not getting super soldiers, we're getting uncontrollable mutants."

Coulson frowned at the healing man on the floor and motioned to the guards in attendance to take him away.

"It sounds like you want to do it."

"Well, we've been tracking these kids all over the country for months, but to no avail. They obviously work well together; they pulled off three bank heists and the museum fiasco. If we unite them and put their brains towards a good cause, frankly sir, I think they have a lot of untapped potential."

"Fine, we'll do it, but only because I trust your judgment. This is your project, Agent. If it screws up, it does not come back to me, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Coulson hung up the phone and walked over to the off-white phone sitting on his desk.

"Stark? You've got some support. Tell me the plan."

* * *

Back in the Carter residence, Bruce was boiling a thermometer while Thor enthusiastically chatted to the semi-conscious Clint Barton.

Peggy had suggested that constant stimulation might help him wake after she administered a cocktail of acetaminophen and various antihistamines and left for the afternoon. As such, the group was listening to the blond haired pre-teen regale a tale of honor, regret, joy, and handball. It was the story of the time Loki tricked him into forfeiting a game by faking an injury, all so that he could go back to his room and read. In the end, Loki was such a good actor that the opposing team felt terrible for hurting the _poor, poor Loki_ that they declared Thor's team the winner. Loki smiled to himself at the memory as he scowled outwardly, pulling a washcloth dipped in rubbing alcohol across Clint's forehead. Bruce emerged from the kitchen, shaking the cooling thermometer.

"Shouldn't Tony and Nat be heading back by now?" he asked to no one in particular.

"Friend Banner! Fret not; for while I would worry for Anthony's safety if he were alone on a quest, I feel no alarm for the capable Natasha is with him. There is enough skill between the two of them to warrant comfort. Anthony has a silver tongue which rivals Loki's, and Natasha's combat skills are strong."

Thor grabbed Bruce's hand and dragged him into a side hug.

"Take Clint's temperature, and let us rejoice in the _vennskap _that fills this room. Hopefully the positivity will help him awaken!"

Bruce bristled, but smiled fondly as he stepped out of the radius of Thor's affection.

"_Vennskap_," Bruce muttered so that only Thor could hear, "means friendship. _Jeger fortsatt læring, venn._"

Thor beamed and continued recounting his story while Bruce tended to Clint.

* * *

Natasha climbed up the tree soundlessly, now dressed in black pants and t-shirt she snatched from a clothesline. Her shoes were cast aside, hidden in the brush beneath her. In a quick motion, she indicated for Tony to return from the parking lot and meet her.

"Sheesh, you were right. That one is a Ford, but with a Mercury engine- a typical police car. That's a Chrysler 300 and a Peugeot 403, which means a high ranking official and a glorified pencil pusher probably. And the rest of them, Christ, I could make out with all of those. I wonder what they're running beneath the hood…"

Tony's eyes held a far away, loving look to them, before he shook his head and turned back.

"So, Natasha, here's the plan. I let myself get caught- I reel them in with car talk, and the 'I'm just a good kid, honest' routine, while you sneak around in the background. I can get us an hour. Sound good?"

"What if they recognize you? Our faces are plastered all over town."

"Please," he scoffed, "I'm Tony Stark. My plans are foolproof. I learned how to schmooze from my dad. Even if they did recognize me in these threads, I could talk my way out of it. But if something does, _somehow_ go wrong, ye of little faith, I'll give the normal signal and you swoop in and rescue Prince Charming."

"In a building design like this, there has to be at least three unalarmed exits, one located by the garage, one in the front, and one attached to a hallway that will lead out to the side of the building. I'll end up going out the front, you take the side and I'll double back and meet you, ok?" Natasha added, with an eye roll.

Tony grinned, flashed a thumbs up, and the mission was on its way.

* * *

"Coulson, we have visual. The targets are approaching the police station according to plan, over."

"Do we have confirmation on identities, Hill? Over."

"Affirmative. Intel says it's Romanova and Stark, over."

"As much of a pain in the caboose Howard is, you have to admit he knows his stuff. Coulson, out."

"I'll only admit that he's a pain in the ass, sir. Hill, out."

* * *

Author's Note: (As much as I hate doing these...) Um- so first of all, I'd like to apologize for abandoning this project for a bit! I've had massive writer's block, so forgive me if the quality of this chapter and the last doesn't seem up to par. It's been a while since I've written anything other than a lab report. Thanks for your support, ideas, and general awesomeness... and sorry again!


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